Soulparking

Saturday, 16 July 2005

The funny thing is during the week as I let my mind wander in a corporate training session and I realized I had never had a bloody nose.  I wondered what it felt like – how embarrassing it is to try to hide it – and usually the horrible reasons why it happens.

When the big, colored bald guy pulled the move out of an action movie – and slammed his head against my face in Club 169 – and I felt the warm liquid running down on my lips – like one of those automatic milk dispensers for coffee – squirting and with such force – down my chin.  I drank my own blood.  I saw the people around me go white – and everyone backed up – including the guy who had broken my nose.  Remarkably I felt no pain – and I took the champagne bottle to go for his head. 

Living in South Africa where the AIDS and HIV rates are so incredibly high, I myself had become a living and breathing weapon of mass destruction – more than the bottle I was going to crash against his head. Live blood!  Squirting on any nearby passerby – even the big black security guards that rushed to the bar to throw me down the stairs – took a second or two to gather their nerve – and deal with me quickly.  Or else they would (if I was HIV positive) be putting their lives at risk if the blood got on a sore or scratch on their hand, arm, or face.

“I am not going anywhere without my sister!” I kept yelling.

For a skinny, short, white guy – I fought hard – it took two security to contain me.

Okay, sure I had a consumed a little too much alcohol.  I was stressed about my upcoming trip to Singapore.  I had also lost the relationship with my best friend in the United States and probably would never have contact with her son who I loved like my own again.  And the relationship disintegrated over email and intentions on both side to help the other.  But in the end, we both felt used and hurt.

So all of things combined – with Mister Clean / Bald Guy wrapping his arm around one of the girls I consider like a sister in Cape Town without her asking him – and I still remember – him grabbing her breast.

“Who the fuck is this guy?” he said – his first words to her.

I lost it.  I cannot, cannot stand a woman being accosted (whether she enticed intentionally or not) or visually violated.  God, I couldn’t take it – I had a core meltdown.  So I took my fingers and poked at his eyes.  He blocked it.  Then pushing ensued.  And then – he pulled the action move.  Bam!  Broken nose and blood.  Lots of blood.

Well, actually looking back – it was a good stopper to the situation.  Smart fighting move.  But afterwards – even being thrown out and waiting on the sidewalk of Long Street – I thought seriously waiting for him to come out – and punching him right in the trachea.

“Why you treating me like shit dude?  I was protecting my sister!  Wouldn’t you have done the same?” I asked – blood flooding down the back of my throat – and the blood crusting under my nose and around my mouth.

“Hey man, I am with you.  But what you didn’t see was the four other guys that were with him.  They were going to kill you.  I actually pulled you out to save your life.”

I went quiet.  And my hatred towards the security guard mutated to appreciation.  But my anger towards Mister Clean grew.  That sonovabitch!  Now I really wanted to wait outside until he started walking to his car or home – and jump him.  I would get killed – but maybe I would get him first. 

My “so-called” sister didn’t come out.  And pissed off but worried like hell about her – in the arms of this guy just trying to get some – and security had banned me from going inside.  So I staggered home.

As I was walking back and seeing the people on the street – drunk and otherwise – seeing my face and the rage in my eyes – I kept thinking about my embarrassment when I arrived in Singapore to teach with two black eyes and a crooked nose.

I got about two hours of sleep before I got up to catch my flight.   My stomach was full of acid and my head burned from lack of sleep and the mass genocide of brain cells the night before.

Jasmin drove us to the airport – I told her what happened.

And in the flight from Cape Town to JoBurg (our connecting flight to Singapore originated from JoBurg), she and I went into details – breaking down the emotion, the confusion, we talked about it all – then I had a sudden epiphany.

I have done it all.  Why do I need to keep doing?  Why do I continue to go to clubs to show that I am the best white hip hop dancer – where I have danced in clubs all around the world – and watched people watch – stare and smile.  Then take me to the side later – “Damn man you’re good.”

Why do I try to protect people?  Why do I try to protect everybody but myself?

Why do I have a temper?  Why is it I cant control my anger?  What is it that causes me to suddenly snap?  I have broken dishes, a brand new pair of sun glasses of Jas’, remote control to a television.  I have even thrown this laptop that I am writing this ejournal on.

“You need to get help for your temper.” Jasmin said candidly. 

“But you know I would never hurt you…”

“Of course – cause I would kick your ass and cut off your balls.”  She paused and looked at me for effect.  “But its killing me that you are hurting yourself.” She said.

I nodded.

I remember my dad chatting with me that very week and saying, “The last thing I ever want for you is for you to lose your temper and lose the people you love the most.” 

My dad had a horrible temper – but only a breathing condition forced him to learn to calm down and get it under control.  My father is a totally different person now.

And Jasmin and I continued talking while passing the time for the flight.  She told me about picking up her friends the night before and running an errand for me – getting me my new business cards prior to my trip.  The guy from the office – who met with Jasmin – is recently married and has a fantastic wife.  And sometimes we kid around that he can’t go out to clubs and party like the rest of Cape Town…  But Jasmin said last night – it was good to see him and his wife – in their regular clothes – being together – and spending a quiet night together.  We remarked that he is the lucky one.

And yes, and all the partying and dancing (which is fun) – beats nothing like dancing a little bit in my apartment with my friends, finishing having a feast that Jasmin has prepared, and then gathering on the couch and watching a rented DVD – eating her best in the world home made popcorn.

Life is about the simple pleasures.  And if I would have gotten shot or stabbed last night trying to push around a guy who just broke my nose – I would have never got to eat Jasmin’s killer chicken pasta again.  Life is too short.

So it is done – after I return from Singapore, I am going to get help about my temper.